


Hood Love

by TheRealSEHinton



Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Does this have a purpose for existing, I wrote this on a whim, M/M, absolutely not, implied sexual stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSEHinton/pseuds/TheRealSEHinton
Summary: It all panned out slowly, like a scary movie. Like that moment when the character is holding their breath, inching towards a closed door. And maybe they already know something rotten is waiting for them, but they open the damn thing anyways. They realize too late what an idiot they've been. And I realized too late that Dallas can fall in love.
Relationships: Johnny Cade/Dallas Winston, Tim Shepard/Dallas Winston
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Hood Love

**Author's Note:**

> I was just writing some headcanons on my Tumblr and I got this random idea. So I wrote a fic about Tim Shepard falling in love with Dallas Winston and here it is. Um... this isn't a very romantic happy one shot, I guess. I don't know how to explain it but just.... don't expect some happy ending or cute kisses.

I still remember when he first strolled into town like he owned the place. And the way he looked at me as I approached him-like I didn’t have the right to share the same space with him.

You can’t strike up casual conversation with him, I’ve learned. I tried. I patted him on the shoulder and smiled and said, “Dallas fucking Winston, back in town, are you?”

“Fuck you.” And then he walked away. 

Those were the first words he had said to me in years. They were short, succinct, to the point, and hate-filled. 

And it didn’t take long to figure out that he hated me. I have my suspicions as to why but I can't confirm any, not with a guy as reserved as him. A few times I've made the mistake of asking him a question too personal and I'd leave the conversation with a black eye or broken nose.

He doesn't really like to talk, or at least not to me. No, when it comes to Dallas Winston and me, we act, we do things. We're rough and hard and we don't care about feelings. That's the way we were raised, that's how life made us.

He used to care when he was a kid, I remember. He'd look up at me with big blue eyes and smile with little baby teeth, always wanting to make everyone happy.

He liked me back then. He asked me if I was his best friend.

He was younger than me, still is, by two years. A little ten-year-old who just figured out the way of the streets and a twelve-year-old who had been there for a long time. I knew my way around, I knew how to feel, how to act.

By twelve I was already cold. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't mine. But it hurt him, I could tell, when I told him hoods don't have best friends.

He smiled, though, when I said, "If I did have a best friend, though, it would be you."

I was used to that dynamic, I guess. I was used to the shine in his eyes, the rose on his cheeks, and the pale freckles on his nose. And him being a bumbling idiot and me being the one to calm him down. Then he came back, hard, ruthless, and spiteful. Spiteful of me, particularly.

So I was amused. I suppressed my laughter whenever he flipped me off or walked away or furrowed his eyebrows like he does when he's mad. It was funny to see him, little Dallas Winston, act like he was tough when I knew him. And I remembered, I still do, when he wasn't.

That amusement of mine always earned me a good knock in the jaw. Then, well, that became our routine. Get mad, fight it out, get over it. I laughed first, I always laughed first cause I could never take him seriously, and then he started laughing too. Soon we both cackled like dogs after we had a good fight, leaning against walls because we were too weak to stand, blood rushing from our cuts to our open mouths.

Then he let me buy him drinks. We'd chug down beer and sit next to each other, eyes meeting and mouths smiling. Always giggling and always itching for another fight.

We're the same person, in some ways. We're not hesitant and we know what we want. I don't like questioning myself, I don't like doubting my emotions and having internal crises alone in my room. I know who I am and I don't bother thinking about it twice. I know what I want and so does he.

But I'm honest and he isn't. So I didn't see the point in hiding it, I didn't bother dancing around the way my stomach flipped and flopped when he got too close to me. It took him a while to figure it out, because he likes to lie to the world and sometimes himself, but he grasped the idea soon enough.

And somehow we got each other. We both distinctly understood what we desired and that was skin and touch and sweat.

Fucking is no different than fighting, not to us. It's a constant power struggle. We never talk before or during or after, we don't ease into it. We find a room, we grab each other, and we go at it. Our communication is how our bodies move, the game lies in who's stronger. Because sex is a competition for us, a pleasurable one too. If I win then he's face down on the mattress, trying to fight against my grip on his arms but laughing once he realizes I've got him. Then he opens himself up to me and we take a break from the grapple, only momentarily. For a second, we're both calm, and understanding, and we let our limbs do what they do best. If he wins then it's the other way around, but I like looking at him in the moment, I like seeing the way his eyes set and his neck flexes, especially when he comes.

I was proud of him when I got to know the new version of himself. I was relieved, in a sense, of who he became. Reserved and distant and biting, because that's how you gotta be in this world. And that's what made him fun.

Really fun. Life with him, being around him, is in itself a competition. A battle with the outside world, a battle with myself. And I don't battle myself, ever. I don't wrestle with my emotions because then that means I'm unsure.

But the thing about him is that he managed to change me, and that meant he won. He won the war. Because I'm not what I'm supposed to be, I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel.

The heat in my gut turned to lightness, like air or clouds. And it spread to my chest, to my heart maybe. It made it beat faster whenever he came around, no longer out of adrenaline.

Maybe it started when I slept next to him the first time, when we were too tired to grab our clothes and leave and we just said fuck it. Maybe then, watching his face illuminated by pale moonlight, noticing how his hair looked white in the darkness, is where it all began. I distinctly remember the pestering urge I had to reach out and touch him, to feel the softness of his lips.

At some point, I realized that Dallas Winston was dangerous. Truly dangerous. Scarier than a brawl or a switchblade, because the motherfucker got me--me of all people--to fall in love.

And it's almost hilarious how the tables turned. He went from an annoying, little kid I wanted out of my hair to someone I couldn't imagine the rest of my life without. Now I'm vying for his attention, begging for him to spare a glance in my direction, and I can't help myself. But God knows I try.

The idiot knew I liked him and I knew he liked me, that was why we were in each other's asses every other night. But love is completely out of my realm of reality, and his too.

I've been convinced, for a while now, that Dallas Winston would never love me back. But I was content with that. I was okay with him never reciprocating how I felt as long as I could still have moments, as long as he still gave me black eyes and hickeys, as long as he messed me up and fucked me senseless. I was okay with that. 

Because hoods like him don't fall in love. And for a while, I thought maybe I was an exception, for a while I was convinced that there was a deeper side to me I had never realized.

But I guess we all have weaknesses. Even a guy like him. I guess Dallas Winston has weaknesses too.

It all panned out slowly, like a scary movie. Like that moment when the character is holding their breath, inching towards a closed door. And maybe they already know something rotten is waiting for them, but they open the damn thing anyways. They realize too late what an idiot they've been. And I realized too late that Dallas can fall in love.

Just not with me.

He can smile and care. He can laugh out loud, dance on rooftops, and give till there's nothing left. He can gaze dreamily and live happily and skip instead of walk. 

But not because of me.

It all came together piece by piece. I still remember seeing the kid walk through the door, head down, shoulders low. I still remember saying, "What the fuck is he doing here, how old is he?"

"He ain't a baby," Dallas told me. "He's a year younger than me, don't be a dick unless you're looking for a fight, Tim."

There wasn't any humor in his words. Scraps between us were fun, threats were like love letters. It had been so long since he spoke to me like he hated me.

Even then I still didn't notice the damn kid. Not till he kept coming by, glued to a corner and drinking his beer sip by sip. So scared that if you yelled too loud he'd jump. I didn't think too much of him, he looked like a child. Like Curly's age, but even less mature.

And I still didn't think too much of him till Dallas started looking the way he did. Like a stupid fool. The way he'd stay by the kid's side, laugh at his jokes, bark at anyone who glanced at him too menacingly. Nearly starting fights when people got too close to the kid.

And he never left him alone. Somehow, someway, they always ended up together. Entering the bar together, dancing together, leaving together. Dallas liked throwing his arm over his shoulder, like he was claiming territory.

That's when the jealousy struck. That's when I felt like another fighter entered the ring, like another level was added to the game. The stakes were raised and I was desperate to win.

I wanted Dallas. I wanted him since he came back from New York and I wasn't ready to give him up. And Lord knows I tried to hold on, I tried to keep him close. I heckled him and fought with him and I kept on taking him back to my place when the house was empty, kept on making sure he knew that I could give him something that kid couldn't. I felt his body shift, I felt him close up again, and I tried to remind him that only I could move him like that, only I could fight him and hold him like that.

But I wasn't enough. I couldn't stop that. I tried to block the words out when he said them. My hand was on his wrist and his lip was bloodied and my eye was swelling. I asked if I could spend the night with him at Buck's. "Tim, I--I can't do that anymore."

"Why? You got some profound judgment now? You changing your ways?"

"I just can't."

"You aren't even going to tell me why?"

He didn't need to. 

I've never been in love before. I've never been heartbroken, or betrayed. And maybe it was all a sick joke, how I felt, what I did, and how it ended. Maybe this was payback for all my wrongdoings, him leaving me for that kid. I never thought I was all that bad until it happened. Then I started wondering what I did to deserve it.

I questioned myself, questioned everything I thought I once knew. And I don't believe in myself anymore, because I'm not enough. I'm not the kid, I'm not jumpy, I'm not soft, I'm not kind. I'm just mean and old and confused about what comes next. 

Now I'm wondering how I could have ever thought we would happen. Men like Dallas are too unpredictable to chart, and I thought I had him in the bag. I thought I was the only person who truly knew him. But I don't. And I guess I never did, cause I would've seen it coming.

I don't know much anymore, just that Dallas would die for that kid. The self-hatred kicks in when I realize all I've ever wanted was to die with him myself. Like two fires burning each other out, leaving with a bang. Too perfect to be true, I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr and my other fics, thanksssss


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